


Palustris

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Collars, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Femdom, Ficlet, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Puppy Play, Submission, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4394501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosie plays with their pet until Sam comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Palustris

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I prefer just Sam/Frodo, but when I’m rereading parts with Rosie, my daydreams have to adapt, so this is a slice of my backup headcanon.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She has him strip before he kneels, mostly because she _can_. She knows it’s _Sam_ he comes for, Sam he really wants, but he’s a natural submissive and doesn’t mind her demands. There’s even a small smile on his lips as he undoes all his buttons—Sam will come soon enough, and there’s no reason they can’t play in the meantime. 

Frodo Baggins is a very different creature than her Sam. He’s adventurous enough, but his skin’s still more pallid, whereas Sam’s always sun-kissed from working in the garden. Frodo’s thin, soft, smaller than she is in some places, but still pretty enough. _Very_ pretty. He’s the most beautiful boy in the Shire and has been for a while, and Rosie can’t quite tell all her friends that he’s taken, _hers_ , because they probably wouldn’t understand, but she knows it. She gets to sit on the edge of her bed and watch him push his trousers down his legs, standing back up with nothing to cover him except his own awkward hands. His brown-dark hair is silhouetted on one side with the moonlight through the bedroom window, and his eyes seem to sparkle as he looks at her. He bites his bottom lip. Maybe he likes her, but he doesn’t _love_ her, not like he loves Sam, but she can still see the excitement for the _game of it_ in his eyes.

She says, “Sit, Frodo,” sweetly, and he obeys, like a puppy or a trained pig. He slinks to all fours and crawls to her, resting on his knees. She reaches down to pet him, runs her stubby fingers through his silk-soft hair, and his eyes flutter closed against his cheeks. He croons like the pet he is, enjoying his master’s attention. There’s a black leather collar on her nightstand that she reaches for, staring down at him instead, and he opens his blue eyes just in time to see it. He tilts his head back, exposing his neck for her, knowing what’s coming. 

The collar clips easily in place, a little pendant falling against his collarbone and a clip in the back where they can attach a leash. He’s Gamgee property, and he knows it, but she enjoys the reminder, engraved below his throat. She leans down to kiss him afterwards, because he’s just so _cute_ and she can’t resist. He lifts to meet her, tender and chaste. Then she sits back up and starts hiking her skirt up over her knees, ready to make use of him. 

She didn’t bother to wear underwear, rarely does anymore, not when she’ll just be staying at home, anyway, and even when Sam’s off at work, she has Frodo here to play with. She mostly does the housework because she enjoys it, in a way, but he does whatever she tells him. He warms her up when she expects Sam coming. Their bed’s big enough for three of them, though they have a smaller bundle of blankets on the floor when Frodo’s been naughty, but she leaves him where he is for now. She likes the power dynamic: her on furniture with a man at her feet. He fits so well between them. He helps hike her skirts up her thighs, and then he ducks between them, setting in to earn his keep. 

Frodo has a talented mouth. He’s more confident than her Sam, and he works with practice, skill, though as far as she knows, he pleases no one else—currently, anyway; when they went away he became _Sam’s_ , and now all Rosie’s friends will have to die of unrequited jealousy. Maybe he used to be more rambunctious with those Took and Brandybuck friends of his, and the thought of it makes Rosie’s eyes flutter, so she entertains the fantasies—her sweet Frodo, pinned down beneath two other hobbits with his tongue in their holes, their cocks in his ass, then his mouth, rubbing all over his body. She’s seen Sam take him enough for her to know exactly what it looks like. The daydream inevitably switches to _Sam_ , her handsome husband coming home to fuck his beloved former-master into the ground. They look so _good_ when they do that, and she gets to watch, and for that, she’s so very, very lucky.

She’s lucky for this, too. Frodo’s tongue is small, but it’s fast, and he puts in effort to push it as far inside her as he can, drawing up her folds and lapping away at her flesh. He sucks at her lips and flays against her clit, not so much teasing as genuinely trying to drink her; he knows that the more he makes her happy, the more Sam will reward him. So he works as hard at this as he does his strange adventures, and she enjoys the new twists and turns no other man has given her. Fantasizing about where he learned his tricks is another story. She’s fairly certain no other man eats pussy this well in the Shire. 

At first, Rosie just lets him work, but eventually she gives in to touching him—she runs her fingers through his hair and holds him against her, trailing down his neck and shoulders, bending over him to grind him in. He doesn’t falter, his eyes closed and his face flushed. She’s wet all over, probably soaking his face, and trembling around his tongue, and she thinks of telling him to use his fingers—give her _more_ —but there’s something more erotic about just his _mouth_ , like he doesn’t get to touch her otherwise: just eat his meal. She often ties his wrists behind his back, or to his thighs or his cock. Sometimes she ties his wrists to his ankles, and other times she stuffs things into him and fastens his hands to the end of it, keeping his body held taut. He takes to being bound well, just like he takes orders well, strips well, eats her out well. The more he licks her, the more lewd her daydreams become, until she’s thinking about leashing him to the foot of her bar, making him suck off all her patrons and lick their release out of bowls like a pig. Then Sam would come in and _drench_ Frodo in his seed, and Frodo would tremble and whine and lick it all away and kiss Sam’s feet, humping the floor and begging for _more_.

She’s nearing her end when the door opens—startling; she hadn’t heard him in the rest of the house. Sam takes half a step into the bedroom before he realizes what’s going on, and then he blushes hot, always so cute and shy despite the latent _power_ in him. He’s so very _handsome_ , and she loves him so _much_ , and all she has to do is reach out one hand for him to come to her. 

He climbs onto the bed beside her, tilts her head back to kiss her, runs his thick fingers through her curls and looks at her all full of adoration. He murmurs breathlessly, “You’re so beautiful,” and she smiles, feeling indescribably _good_. Then he glances down at Frodo, and Rosie kisses his cheek. 

“You can take him, if you like,” she purrs, phrasing it like an offer but wanting it to be an order. Frodo’s still going; she’s holding him down, and he knows his place. A slight shiver runs through Sam’s body, that flash of disbelief in his eyes like it always is when she offers him treats. He doesn’t realize how much he deserves it. 

He tells her, “You’re the best wife ever.” She chuckles and bites her bottom lip. She doesn’t have the wherewithal to explain how much she enjoys watching right now. So she just kisses him again and lets him sink back off the bed, coming behind their precious third. He flattens against Frodo’s back, all in his clothes as he is, and Frodo whines against Rosie’s pussy like he wants to turn to Sam. She doesn’t let him. He has to settle for that fleeting touch and arching back into Sam as much as he can. 

Rosie’s the one to pass Sam lubrication—more trinkets from the nightstand—and his fingers disappear between them, though Rosie knows each time a finger enters Frodo; he goes wild with it. He stops to gasp, to moan, and she has to growl, “Frodo,” in a warning tone to make him work again. 

Sam kisses the back of Frodo’s head, mumbling behind him, “Be good to Rosie, okay?” Frodo nods his head and obliges instantly. He never disobeys Sam. His tongue returns with vigor, and Rosie moans in delight, struggling to keep her clouded eyes open. 

Sam’s just pulling back when Rosie finishes, coming with a cry right into Frodo’s mouth. She shudders and thrusts forward, holding Frodo down, and he licks her right through it. It’s delicious; wonderful. The orgasm overheats her, leaves her giddy and boneless, and she rides it out as long as she can, until she’s too spent to sit straight anymore. 

When she climbs back onto the bed, Frodo slumps, his face hot pink and covered in her juices, his eyes half-lidded and dilated with his tongue stuck out and leaking around the corners of his lips. He looks wrecked, completely debauched, and he pants, “ _Sam_ ,” in a desperate moan while her husband presses forward again.

Rosie dizzily watches Sam bury himself in Frodo, then set a steady pace, while she gets steadily wetter again, hoping one of them will have the energy for round two.


End file.
